


The Things You Overhear Hidden In A Haystack

by DestielTheShipOfDreams



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Ciri realises some things, Eavesdropping, Geralt and Ciri, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Apologizes, Good Parent Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier is pissed off, Jaskier | Dandelion Being Jaskier | Dandelion, M/M, Nerd Ciri, Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-Season/Series 01, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:55:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22476751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DestielTheShipOfDreams/pseuds/DestielTheShipOfDreams
Summary: "Geralt of Rivia was clearly lonely. And he didn’t deserve to be. Ciri was just pleased that he’d let down his walls enough for her to see past his gruffness and get to know the person underneath. It made sense that he had shown his softer side to her; she was the only person who wasn’t scared of him.Or at least, that’s what she thought. "
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 106
Kudos: 2149





	The Things You Overhear Hidden In A Haystack

**Author's Note:**

> Oh haaaaaaayyyyyy. I have finally written more fic and - le gasp - it is NOT destiel! Still gay tho. I actually ship Geralt/Jaskier/Yennefer more than just Geralt/Jaskier but I can't promise I'll write any.   
> This... isn't even that shippy for most of it because I got really interested in Geralt and Ciri's dynamic whilst writing it... oops!  
> I have only seen the show and I have no clue what would actually happen next after S1... let's just pretend that Ciri would somehow not get noticed within like two days. Maybe she's wearing a glamour. It's not that important.

Everything about Geralt seemed to be a warning. The size, the scowl, the sword; even sometimes the smell (often some variety of intestine). All of it marked him as dangerous, closed off, often hostile. He scared people. He _wanted_ to scare people, or at least keep them at arm’s length.

Everybody but Ciri.

As she’d observed since becoming his travel companion, he was menacing and cold towards every person he met… except her. With her he was gentle. Careful. Almost sweet.

Since the day they’d met, Geralt had tried his best to protect her. He didn’t say much, but there was a softness in his eyes and voice when he did speak to her. He let her ride Roach, walking alongside with the reins held loosely in his huge fist. He’d bought her a fine sleeping roll the day after she’d found him - probably using up most of his coin - so that she didn’t have to sleep on the hard ground when they made camp. He always made sure she had enough to eat. When they stayed at inns, he hovered at her side like a bodyguard, frowning at anyone who so much as glanced at her. When she woke up from nightmares of shadows chasing her through dark woods and blood staining her grandmother’s teeth, he sat by her and let her rest her head on his knee, hesitantly stroked her hair and murmured words of comfort. When she asked him timid questions about the monsters he’d hunted and the people he’d saved, he obliged her with stories, albeit short ones with few details. He was _kind_ to her.

Geralt’s quiet kindness wasn’t the only thing that Ciri was sure he only let her see. He was _mad_ about his horse, that was for sure. He petted and brushed and scratched Roach every time they stopped for a break or to make camp or to put her into a stable for the night. Ciri was fond of Roach too, but Geralt was absolutely devoted to the aloof mare. It made Ciri smile to see him rubbing her neck, murmuring in her ear with his amber eyes soft and fond.

He liked music, although it had taken Ciri longer to notice this. When they stopped at an inn and someone struck up a lute, Geralt’s whole attention was drawn to whoever was playing, particularly if it was one of the several popular songs that Ciri had learned – with some amusement – were actually about him. He usually only watched the performance for a few seconds before giving a grunt or frown and turning his eyes back to his food or drink, but Ciri had watched him carefully and seen how he glanced back at the bard every few minutes; how his gaze would unfocus sometimes, as though the song was taking him elsewhere in his mind. Ciri listened to the songs too, delighting in the details that Geralt left out when he was telling her about his adventures.

Ciri had managed to pick up enough from Geralt to piece together that he was older than he looked – as in, _far_ older – and that he had no friends or family to speak of. He travelled, he killed monsters, he got paid, he moved on.

She was glad she’d found him, and not just for her own sake. Geralt of Rivia was _clearly_ lonely. And he didn’t deserve to be. Ciri was just pleased that he’d let down his walls enough for her to see past his gruffness and get to know the person underneath. It made sense that he had shown his softer side to her; she was the only person who wasn’t scared of him.

Or at least, that’s what she thought.

It was about a day since they’d left Gorvil, a mid-sized town near the coast, and a rainy day at that. Ciri was in her usual spot when Geralt was off hunting a monster: huddled in a heavily warded campsite, carving a lump of wood. She’d been practicing for weeks and was starting to get alright at it. She was thinking about maybe making little carved amulets with runes on them, for protection and the like, to sell in towns and get them some extra coin. Geralt spent a lot of their coin on buying warding spells so that Ciri could be safe while he was out hunting. She wanted to contribute.

Ciri heard a noise through the rain and she stiffened, peering out from under her oiled hood. She sighed with relief when she saw that it was Geralt and Roach, accompanied by a truly gruesome carcass. Ciri wasn’t sure what it was, but it resembled a huge, nightmarish variety of shellfish.

“It’s only me,” Geralt called in a low voice. “Deactivate the runes.”

Ciri scrambled to her feet and pulled the little scroll out of her inner pocket, peering at it. She read the words in the second paragraph out loud and felt a little frisson in the air as the wards lifted.

“Thanks,” grunted Geralt as he led Roach closer. Ciri smiled up at him and touched his arm as she leaned around him to stare in horrified fascination at the dead lobster-like monster.

“What was it, again?” she enquired. Geralt scowled at it.

“Bloody pain in the…”

He trailed off and glanced down at her warily. She tilted her head at him.

“… _arse_?” she finished cheekily. The furrow on Geralt’s brow deepened but he shrugged and nodded.

“Yep.” He paused and then, almost reluctantly, continued. “It was an aeschna. Living in a marshy area and blocking the fishermen from safely reaching open water. Big brute, put up a fight. I swallowed a lot of mud. I bloody hate the taste of mud.”

Ciri made a sympathetic noise as Geralt narrowed murderous eyes at the creature’s carcass.

“No, I can’t imagine it’s very tasty.”

“It is not. But the shell’s worth a fair amount, so… guess it’s good this one was such a giant. We’ll head back to Gorvil. Their local sorcerer is known for potion-making; he’ll probably buy it all.”

Ciri trailed after Geralt as he began to pack up the pots stacked by the drenched remains of their fire. “Oh? What can it be used for?”

Geralt looked mildly uncomfortable, as he did any time a conversation was extended past a few sentences, but he obliged her as always.

“Um. Broken bones, helps to heal them faster if you grind it up and mix it into broth. Heard it can be added to pastes for putting on wounds too. Dunno if it’s much good for spells.”

Ciri nodded as she strapped her sleeping roll to Roach’s saddle. She had a notebook in which she’d been collecting information about monsters and magic. It was all so _interesting_ , and she wanted to learn as much as possible. She was already planning to write down all that he’d told her, along with a sketch of the aeschna, while Geralt washed the mud off once they reached Gorvil.

But by the time they did reach Gorvil ten long hours later, it was the middle of the night. Ciri was half-asleep as Geralt lifted her off of Roach and gently herded her into a room. She crawled into bed, not sneaking curious glances as she usually did when he stripped off and climbed into a tub behind a folding screen. She wondered, as she drifted off, whether his ability to stay awake and alert for so long was a result of his inhuman abilities, or just decades of practice.

When she awoke late the next morning, Geralt was gone, which was unusual enough to make her sit bolt upright in alarm. His belongings were mostly still piled on the floor next to the other bed, which had clearly been slept in. Ciri glanced around, trying not to panic, until she spotted a note lying on her bedside table. She snatched it up, recognizing Geralt’s compact handwriting.

_Cirilla-_

_Didn’t want to wake you. Went to sell the aeschna shell, be back by noon. Warded the room so stay put._

_Geralt._

Ciri gave a sigh of relief and then hesitated. The note was very clear that she should stay within the safety of the wards, and she always obeyed Geralt; he was her guardian, and she had been through enough to value being safe and protected. But… it had been a long time since she had done something of her own accord rather than because Geralt told her to.

Ciri glanced at the door. She could hear chatter and laughter downstairs. It was less than an hour until noon. They’d be starting to serve up food for lunch. Her stomach growled. _Gods_ , she was hungry. Geralt would expect her to just eat the dry bread and cured meat in her travelling pack, but she would much rather go buy a bowl of soup or stew. She had a few coins that Geralt had given to her as a sort of allowance. Probably in case of emergency, but still.

And if these wards were the same wards they’d used at the campsite, Ciri knew the deactivation spell.

It would be nice to eat in the open air too; the silent, closed in room made Ciri nervous. But if Geralt came back and found an empty room, he’d think something had happened to her…

She brightened. Geralt would need to put Roach back in the stables before coming up to the room. If Ciri took her food and ate in the back of the stables near the door, she’d see Geralt come in and she’d be able to sneak back up while he was putting Roach away. Perfect.

Ciri only felt a little guilty as she deactivated the wards and stepped out into the hallway. She knew that Geralt’s protective measures were because he cared and she was grateful for it, but… after all, she wasn’t _helpless._ She’d survived a fairly perilous journey, by herself, before she’d met him. And…

Ciri firmly stamped down upon any thoughts of lioness roars and power in her veins and death and destruction. She hadn’t felt any hint of that since meeting Geralt and she was determined to keep it that way. Forever.

Her attention was diverted as she entered the main tavern, by a bard strumming his lute near the bar. He was singing a familiar song that Ciri was fairly sure was one of the ones about Geralt. She paid for her bowl of stew and watched the bard idly, smiling at his lovely voice and animated style of singing. She looked around the tavern, her smile growing at the bizarre sense of independence. She’d stood in dozens of taverns and seen dozens of bards play, but without Geralt’s looming presence it felt different. She had never resented Geralt, but the feeling of freedom she got just from ordering some stew by herself was intoxicating.

The barmaid came back with her stew and Ciri thanked her, taking the warm wooden bowl with both hands. The bard finished his song with a flourish as Ciri turned to leave, prompting a smattering of whistles and applause. She glanced back just as she reached the door, to see the tavern owner emerge from the room behind the bar and lean over to deliver the bard’s own bowl of stew.

“Thank you, my good sir,” the bard said with a funny little bow as he laid his lute to one side. “Your generosity is much appreciated.”

“Yeah, yeah,” replied the owner, waving impatiently. “Say, that song you just did, about the White Wolf… you’ll never guess who showed up last night!”

Ciri rolled her eyes and pushed the door open, carrying her stew carefully over to the stables and musing on how odd it was that she was a fugitive hiding with a celebrity. She’d tried to ask Geralt about his fame, about the songs, but he clammed up every time. From what she could gather by listening to the lyrics, Geralt was a fairly well-liked figure – a heroic legend, really - which surprised her given his total lack of enthusiasm for interacting with people in any situation.

Ciri settled herself down in the nook behind the haystack towards the back of the stables. It wasn’t very clean and the whole place smelled pretty strongly, but all she had to do was lean forward and peer around the haystack if she heard anyone come in. If it was Geralt, she only needed a moment to slip out the door beside her and race back up to the room.

Ciri only got a few mouthfuls into her stew when she heard footsteps. She knew immediately that they were too quick and light to be Geralt’s – plus, there was no accompanying horse – but she took a peek anyway.

It was the bard from inside the tavern. He looked far less cheerful than before, striding into the centre of the stables and peering into all of the stalls with a frown on his face, one hand on his hip and the other running agitatedly through his mop of brown hair.

“Fuck’s sake,” he muttered, kicking at a post and wincing, shaking his foot. “’ _Course_ he’s already left. _Fucker_.”

Ciri shrank back a little. The man didn’t look overly threatening, but he was clearly upset or angry about something. Upset or angry people – especially men – made Ciri wary. She watched the bard for a few more seconds. He stood still in the middle of the stable, one hand still on his hip and the other pressed to his forehead as if to push back his own thoughts. He was grimacing, his eyes closed. Ciri felt a stirring of pity. He looked pained. Something, or someone, had hurt him.

More footsteps, this time with the clopping of hooves alongside them. Ciri’s heartbeat picked up; these sounded like Geralt. She tucked back her hair as she leaned forward infinitesimally to watch the entrance to the stable.

Geralt appeared, leading Roach. He stopped dead at the sight of the bard, whose back was turned to him. Ciri frowned at his parted lips, his wide eyes. He looked… shocked. Did he know this man? Geralt rarely knew anyone enough to react like that at the sight of them. Ciri hoped that this wasn’t some enemy from long past. She was fairly sure that Geralt wouldn’t murder someone to settle a score, but if pushed in anger… well, she didn’t know him _that_ well yet.

While Geralt had remained silent in the half-second since spotting the bard, Roach had not. She snorted and gave a soft whinny, sidestepping in something approaching excitement. Ciri frowned again. Roach never gave a _toss_ about anyone but Geralt. She mostly ignored Ciri, even when being ridden by her.

The bard dropped his hand from his face and whirled around when he heard the whinny. Ciri could no longer see his face, but she saw something flicker across Geralt’s; something she couldn’t quite catch.

“ _You_ ,” breathed the bard. So they definitely knew each other, then. “You’re here.”

Geralt shifted his weight, staring down the other man, his face giving away little. “Yes. Hello, Jaskier.”

Jaskier moved faster than Ciri would have expected. He darted forward and shoved heavily at Geralt’s broad chest, clearly putting most of his weight behind it, the movement full of fury but utterly ineffectual against the witcher. Ciri pressed a hand to her mouth to cover a gasp. No one – _no one_ – laid violent hands on Geralt and remained conscious. Very few attempted it, but a smattering of drunken strangers with a point to prove had tried to fight him and had very quickly ended up out cold on the floor. Geralt didn’t even do it because he was angry, or to fight back. He did it to get rid of an annoyance, like swatting at a fly. Because that’s how Geralt was with everyone who wasn’t Ciri; it was like they barely registered to him, let alone mattered. He didn’t care if he scared people, as long as they left him the hell alone.

This poor, stupid bard was about to lose some teeth.

Except… he wasn’t. Geralt dropped Roach’s reins and grabbed the bard by the shoulders, steadying him or holding him back or both. Jaskier shoved him again, though, this time putting some space back between them. Roach backed up too, tossing her head as though offended. Ciri lowered her hand, curious about Geralt’s restrained reaction and his uncomfortable, almost _guilty_ expression.

“Sorry,” said Jasker, not sounding remotely sorry, his hands balled into fists by his sides and his voice laced with venom. Ciri blinked. Did this man have a death wish? “Reflex reaction, you see. So, how’ve you been?”

Geralt’s jaw twitched as he looked down at the ground. “You’re angry.”

Jaskier let out a humourless huff of laughter. “Oh, well done!”

There was a beat of silence before the bard continued in a smaller, shakier voice. “You really hurt me.”

Geralt glanced up at this, his closed off look melting into something soft and pained. The sort of expression that Ciri had only ever seen on his face when he was looking at her.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said quietly, almost pleadingly; Ciri had never heard that from him before. “Jaskier, I’m sorry.”

Ciri gaped at this man who she’d thought she knew so well. Apparently, she’d gotten a few things wrong. Apparently, she was not the only person he cared about or who wasn’t afraid of him.

Jaskier let out a heavy breath, his stance still tense and defensive. “Huh. Wow. _That_ must have taken some effort.”

Geralt’s eyes narrowed, annoyance clear in the set of his mouth. “Well, damn it, what else can I say?”

“I don’t know. Maybe that you were a prick and you were ungrateful and really, really mean.”

Geralt threw up his hands, uncharacteristically animated in his frustration. “Yes, all of that!”

Jaskier folded his arms. “Did you mean it, then?”

Geralt lowered his arms and sighed, shrugging, gaze wandering the floor instead of meeting Jaskier’s eyes. “Maybe I meant it when I _said_ it. A few hours later… not so much.”

Jaskier sniffed. “So, am I or am I _not_ the reason for every fuck-up you’ve ever endured? Am I a curse upon your existence? If so, I don’t know why you’d even risk standing here talking to me, I mean who _knows_ what tragedy might befall you next- “

“Jaskier,” Geralt growled, stepping forward into the bard’s space. They were of a similar height, which surprised Ciri. Somehow, Geralt looked much taller when they weren’t nose to nose. Geralt fixed Jaskier with an intense stare, his fiery eyes burning with more emotion than Ciri had seen since the day she’d run into his arms in those woods. She bit her lip, discomfort creeping up on her to be eavesdropping on something personal. “I _didn’t_ mean it. I was angry and I took it out on you. It was a mistake.”

Jaskier cocked his head, chin up. It was remarkable how little Geralt seemed to intimidate him. Ciri was somewhat impressed, despite her growing desire to be just about anywhere else.

“Hmm.”

Geralt’s jaw twitched. “The fuck does ‘hmm’ mean?”

Jaskier unfolded his arms and poked Geralt in the chest. “Exactly! Fucking _exactly,_ Geralt. The _number_ of times you have given that exact response to me. It’s maddening, isn’t it? At least now you might understand how- “

Jaskier was abruptly silenced as Geralt cupped a hand around the back of his neck and _kissed_ him. Ciri felt her mouth drop open as she watched Jaskier freeze for a second and then lean into the kiss with a soft noise, both hands curling into the front of Geralt’s shirt. The two men swayed a little, mouths moving slow and firm together, Geralt’s free hand wrapping around the bard’s waist.

Ciri shook her head in amazement. Clearly there were a _lot_ of things she hadn’t known about Geralt.

Jaskier broke away first, breathing heavily. He didn’t say anything, apparently just staring at Geralt from inches away. Geralt blinked at him and gave a small, overly casual shrug, a smile barely suggested in the shape of his mouth.

“I’ve missed you,” Geralt murmured, his low voice barely audible to Ciri’s ears. There was a pause.

“Oh,” Jaskier said softly. “Oh. I… um…”

Geralt looked away and began to pull back from the other man, dropping his hands, mouth thinning into a hard line. Ciri sat up straighter, heart aching to see him looking hurt.

“I’m sorry if-“ Geralt began gruffly.

“No!” Jaskier protested, grabbing Geralt by the elbows.

“Yes!” Ciri breathed to herself, hugging her arms around her own waist, concern for Geralt overtaking her qualms about eavesdropping. Geralt stopped, glancing back up at the bard. Jaskier gave him a little shake.

“Geralt,” he said in a solemn voice, “you absolute idiot. Do you think I kiss just anyone like that? Do you think I would _allow_ just _anyone_ to kiss me like that? Do you think I’m a _slut_?!”

“Yes.”

“Not the point, witcher! The point I am making is that you are far too quick to assume that I’m offended by your amorous advances.”

“Don’t call them that.” But Geralt was smiling, definitely smiling, so Ciri smiled too. “What _should_ I assume?”

Jaskier cupped Geralt’s face with a gentle hand, his voice softer when he replied. “That I missed you too.”

Ciri managed to sneak away the second time they kissed. She was still smiling. She was going to like Jaskier, she could tell.


End file.
